I smirked. My mom tended to blow things out of proportion. Slashing Dad’s tires was really bad, but we weren’t in serious danger.
My sister moved farther into the room. “Do you know who it was?”
“I could barely see him,” I said. “I thought he looked about your age.”
“Don’t blame me for this,” Tarryn snapped. “Mom wants to send the video to Principal Gorman. If she does, I’ll drop out. I’m serious.”
I snorted a laugh. “If you dropped out of high school, Mom would spontaneously combust.”
Tarryn allowed a hint of a smile. “If Mom goes to Gorman, this will get a million times worse. I’ll be targeted. The house will be targeted.”
“Yeah.”
She perched on the end of my bed. “They won’t listen to me. Can you tell them?”
“I can try.”
She said nothing, just toyed with the string of her pajama pants for a moment. I’d grown used to my snide, scowling sister, but she looked younger. And sweeter. Like she was when we were kids. Then she looked up at me.
“Why aren’t you going back to Worbey?”
My sister and I had never been confidantes. I was three years older, sporty and academic: Tarryn was alt, a social justice warrior, a nonconformist. But she was my little sister and that connection was there, would always be there. I could tell her what had happened, how I had stood by and watched it all. She would listen, with sympathy, without judgment.
But the truth could also be weaponized. Tarryn was desperate to deflect the harassment away from her, terrified that my mom would go to the school and destroy her reputation. My sister might tell my parents about the hazing to distract them. They’d contact the college. I knew they would. And then things would really blow up.
“Nothing happened,” I said with a shrug. “I just hated it there.”
Viv
ON MONDAY AFTERNOON at two fifteen, I sat in Principal Gorman’s utilitarian office. I’d timed this meeting to avoid seeing my daughter—or any students—in the school hallways. Tarryn would have killed me if she found me there. She had begged me not to meet with her principal. My “meddling” would only make things worse—for Tarryn. For all of us. She’d even enlisted Eli’s help in convincing me that no good could come from involving the school. I understood her concerns, but I was sure I could do this without anyone knowing. And I had no other choice.
The attacks were escalating; the police agreed with me. Two different officers—both male—had come to the house, wandered around the driveway, taken photos of Thomas’s tires, and viewed the videos. Their presence had made me feel conspicuous and embarrassed. Everyone in the neighborhood would be peeping through their windows at the squad car, gossiping about us, speculating on what we’d done to instigate this harassment. The police took the offense seriously—or so they said. They would file a report. If the perpetrators were caught, they would be charged. But with no way to identify them, the cops were powerless to stop them. Tarryn and Eli couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tell us who these kids were, or why they were attacking us in the night. The police had suggested the school might be able to help. Mitchell Gorman was my only hope.
“I’m sorry this is happening to your family,” the principal began. He was in his forties, slim, and well-dressed. On his desk was a framed photo of his partner and two fluffy dogs. I’d had minimal interaction with the administrator, but I knew that he ran the school with a firm but fair hand. His air of calm capability was reassuring.
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s been really stressful.”
Mitchell gave me a sympathetic nod. “I watched the video you sent of the figure in your driveway. And I e-mailed it, without context, to the teachers of grades ten through twelve. Unfortunately, we weren’t able to identify the culprit. We can’t even be sure he attends this school.”
“But he must,” I said. “This has to have something to do with my daughter.”
“Have you tried talking to Tarryn about it?”
If Mitchell Gorman thought getting to the bottom of this was as simple as talking to Tarryn, he clearly didn’t know her. “I’ve tried,” I said, my voice wobbling with exasperation. “But she won’t open up to me.”
“Her attendance record has been spotty lately. She’s been missing a lot of morning classes.”
My shoulders sagged. “She told me she had a free period. I’m so naïve.”
“Sometimes it’s hard for teens to be honest with their parents. She might be more forthcoming with her counselor. Or even with me.”
“Please,” I said quickly, “she begged me not to come to you. She can’t know I was here.”
“I’ll talk to her counselor. Barb Harris is really tactful. She can call Tarryn in to discuss her senior year’s timetable. She can gently prod her to open up about what’s going on.”
“Could you talk to some of the boys in her grade? This kid had a knife. He could be dangerous.”
“It was difficult to see what he was carrying.”
“He was carrying a blade! The tires were slashed!”
The principal steepled his fingers together. “If this were happening on school property, I’d have more power. But until we can confirm that our students are harassing you, this is probably a matter for the police, and not the school.”
Principal Gorman couldn’t help me after all. I’d risked my relationship with my daughter to come here, and now he was dismissing me. The police had sent me to the school. The school was sending me to the police. I felt frustrated, powerless, and scared. My face flushed and, to my chagrin, tears welled in my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I stammered, fishing in my bag for a tissue. “I didn’t mean to get emotional.”
“It’s understandable,” Mitchell said, but he looked a little uncomfortable. He grabbed a tissue box off his credenza and slid it toward me. As the tears spilled over, I gratefully reached into it.
“It’s empty,” I said.
“Gwen always has tissues. I’ll get some.” He seemed eager to leave, relieved to get away from the sniveling mess in his office. The mother who didn’t know her daughter was cutting classes, who couldn’t even talk to her own child. The woman who fell apart, blubbering over eggs and tomatoes and tires, who hallucinated a knife into the hand of a mischievous child.
That’s when I spotted his pen, a Montblanc ballpoint. It was an awfully fancy pen for a public-school principal, worth about $700. I’d considered buying one for Thomas’s birthday, but thought it seemed a bit excessive. But apparently it wasn’t too much for Principal Gorman. I plucked it off the pile of papers and felt its weight, the sleek black surface. Did an ineffectual principal like Mitchell Gorman deserve such an expensive writing instrument?
My hand was already moving toward my purse even as my brain shouted at me to stop. The pen was too exposed, too expensive. And I couldn’t steal from my daughter’s principal. If I got caught, Tarryn would be humiliated. She would never forgive me. I would never forgive myself.
But my arm was inside my bag when Mitchell returned, holding a tissue box. I couldn’t pull the pen out now and return it to the desk. I had no choice but to let it drop and reach for a tissue.
“Thank you,” I said, dabbing at my eyes and blowing my nose. And then I stood. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
“I’ll keep my ear to the ground. Let you know if I hear anything.”
“Thank you for your help.” It almost sounded sincere.
But it wasn’t.
Tarryn
EVERY DAY AFTER school, I had a standing date on Northwest Twenty-Third with Luke and Georgia. We went for coffee, or smoothies, or doughnuts, and bitched about school, or gossiped about the popular kids. Luke’s favorite topic was our sort-of-hot English teacher, Mr. McLaughlin, who’d supposedly had a fling with a student two years ago. Georgia had an enduring crush on my brother, which was pretty disturbing. Eli was best friends with her cousin Sam… or at least he used to be. I looked forward to our post-school debri
efs, but today I had other plans. Today I was meeting Bryce Ralston at a park a couple blocks from the school.
“Why?” Luke asked, ever protective. “Do you think Bryce has been throwing the eggs and shit at your house? Do you think he slashed your dad’s tires?”
Georgia’s hazel eyes were wide. “Oh my god. Would he do that?”
“Who else?” I asked. “He might get his friends to do it for him. But if these attacks are about me, it has to be Bryce.”
Luke’s brow furrowed. “I don’t see it.”
“He hates me. He was a total dick to me.”
“Yeah…,” Georgia said tentatively, “but just because you hurt him.”
I had hurt him. But not intentionally. Our French study sessions had turned flirtatious, and eventually, they’d turned physical. Bryce’s mom was a dentist, his dad was a lawyer. They were never home, allowing us ample time to kiss and play in his disheveled bedroom. No one knew what we were up to—except Luke and Georgia. Bryce hadn’t told any of his friends. They were cool, popular, shallow—they’d taunt and tease Bryce if they knew he was hooking up with Tarryn the weirdo, Tarryn the art ho. I was Bryce’s dirty little secret, but I didn’t mind. In fact, I thought it was kind of hot.
Going all the way was my idea. We had chemistry. We had opportunity. And the drawer in Bryce’s bedside table was stuffed with condoms provided by his dad. I’d thought Bryce was a fuck boy, but it turned out he was a virgin, just like I was. I felt ready, physically and emotionally. I liked him. I trusted him. It just made sense.
We’d been hanging out for a couple of months, hooking up for about three weeks, when he made the pronouncement. We were pressed together in his single bed, our bodies damp and sticky. “I’m ready to tell my friends about us.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I don’t care what they think. I like you. Like… I really like you.”
I wriggled out of his arms so I could face him. “I like you, too, but—”
“Just because we’re in different social circles, doesn’t mean we can’t be a couple. Fuck what everyone else thinks.”
Maybe I could have been kinder, but I was shocked. So, I was honest. “I don’t want to be a couple. I just want to have sex with you.”
Bryce was incredulous. He had deigned to have feelings for me, and I was turning him down. How could I reject his square-jawed, muscular perfection? Why didn’t I want to bask in his aura of popularity? He’d been willing to take the teasing and disdain of his dickhead jock friends, and I was telling him thanks, but no thanks.
My cheeks burned at the memory of his pain that had quickly morphed into anger and then hatred. He’d stopped speaking to me. He barely even looked at me, but I felt his loathing all the same. I turned to Luke and Georgia. “Just because I bruised his ego doesn’t give him the right to harass my family.” I walked away before they could try to change my mind.
* * *
I WASN’T SURE Bryce would show up. He’d read my text but hadn’t responded. Still… I had a feeling he’d come. I’d made it sound urgent. And serious. Because it was. Slashing my dad’s tires was next-level fucked up. And trolling me on the camming site was totally obsessive. I perched on a park bench as far away as I could get from the squealing toddlers on the playground equipment. If Bryce didn’t turn up soon, I was going to have a pounding headache. Then I saw his tall, athletic form approaching.
“Hey,” I said, when he joined me.
“Hey.” He didn’t sit down. “What do you want?”
Now that he was here, I wasn’t sure how to begin. If he wasn’t responsible, I didn’t want to draw attention to the attacks on my house. They were oddly embarrassing. And there was no way I would admit to camming if Bryce didn’t know.
Finally, I said, “Do you still hate me?”
“I never hated you, Tarryn. I just think you’re a bitch.”
My cheeks burned. He was angry and lashing out, but I had done nothing wrong. I stood up. I didn’t like the power differential of him looming over me. “I’m sorry that you got hurt. But that’s not my fault.”
“You’re right. I was stupid to think you had feelings.”
“I have feelings,” I snapped. “They were just different than yours. That doesn’t make me a bitch.”
“No,” he said, eyes narrowed. “It makes you a slut.”
I would not be slut-shamed by this crybaby asshole. “Fuck you. Just because I rejected you doesn’t mean you can fuck with me and my family.”
He gave a derisive laugh. “How am I fucking with you and your family?”
I looked into his face, saw his hurt and his hate, but he wasn’t lying.
Shit.
“Forget it,” I said.
As I walked away from him, I berated myself. I’d gotten it all wrong. Bryce was not the one attacking me. Someone else was taunting me online, harassing me at home. Someone else hated me that much.
But I had no idea who.
Thomas
THE E-MAIL FROM Chanel came in while I was at the garage, picking up my car after having all four tires replaced. My comprehensive insurance had covered the cost, but I’d still had to fork out a sizable deductible. And then there was the hassle of having the car towed and borrowing Viv’s car for three days while we waited for the work to be done. My car was my livelihood. That damn kid had hit me where it hurt. Maybe this was about me?
I was in a pretty foul mood when my phone vibrated in my pocket. Even though the device buzzed constantly, somehow I knew. Thanking the tire guy, I hurried to my car. Only when I was alone inside did I open the message.
50K. Now. Or the pictures are going out.
Empathy. That was the key to getting the other side to lower their ask. Finding different, softer ways of saying no. Taking a deep breath, I wrote back.
I’m afraid that’s just not possible.
Dropping the phone into the console, I backed out of the garage’s parking lot. Chanel would blow up, posturing and threatening, but she wouldn’t send out the photos. If she did, she’d get nothing… nothing except my humiliation. And what satisfaction would that give her? If she’d wanted me to be punished, she should have called the police. But she hadn’t. Because I hadn’t hurt her.
Time had provided no more clarity on the events of that night. No snippets of memory had revisited me. But I was still confident that I hadn’t choked and bitten that woman, that I was incapable. I would never grab a woman by the neck—ever. And as for the biting? That just wasn’t me. I’d never even playfully nipped a lover; it had never even crossed my mind. If I’d tried it with Viv, she would have smacked me upside the head.
Even though I was confident in my innocence, proving it was another matter. So, I would have to pay Chanel—or whoever was behind this blackmail bullshit. I’d set my limit at $25,000. It was my commission on the Hancock place. The buyers wanted a quick closing. I’d get the money in a month, and it would slip through my hands as if I’d never had it.
Half an hour later, I pulled up to a luxury home in Lake Oswego. It had just come on the market and the listing agent was giving realtors a preview. I saw Roger Bains’s Mercedes across the street, saw him standing in front of the house, chatting with another agent. I wasn’t in the mood to make pleasant small talk with him. If I stayed in my car long enough, he might leave.
Grabbing my phone, I checked my e-mail. I’d expected Chanel to take longer to respond, but, finally, she seemed eager to negotiate.
40K. Next week.
We were getting closer. But we weren’t there yet.
I’m sorry. I really wish I could pay, but that’s too much.
I sent the e-mail with my heart lodged in my throat. This had to work. My negotiation skills could not fail me, not now. Not for this.
Then I turned off my phone and headed for the house.
Viv
I WAS IN my home office when I heard the front door open and then slam shut.
“Mom?”
It was Tarryn. She
never called out to me when she got home from school, preferring to skulk down to the basement until summoned for dinner. Usually, I accosted her, just to check in, to ask how her day had been, but she rarely, if ever, sought me out.
“Up here,” I said brightly. My daughter’s tone had been unreadable. Was it possible that she had some good news she wanted to share? Maybe she’d done well on a test. Or gotten a role in the school play. But the gooseflesh on my arms elicited by her heavy footsteps on the stairs did not bode well. As usual, my daughter was not happy.
I spun in my chair to greet her. “Hi, honey,” I said to the dark cloud that filled my doorway.
“You went to Principal Gorman,” she spat. “I specifically told you not to.”
Panic rendered me speechless for a moment. Was denial my best strategy? Or had Gorman or the counselor outed me? Finally, I stammered, “Wh-what?”
“Ms. Harris called me into her office. She pretended she wanted to talk about next year’s timetable, but after about five minutes, she started grilling me about my problems.”
“What problems?”
“Exactly! But she was all like… ‘Do you have issues with kids at school? How are your romantic relationships? Any problems there?’ ”
“It’s her job to check in with the students.”
“Don’t lie to me, Mom. Did you go to Gorman? Did you send him that video?”
I was cornered, caught.
“These boys are scaring me, Tarryn. They’re out there in the night with weapons. They’re doing serious damage now.” I stood, moved closer to her. “You won’t tell me what’s going on with you, and I’m worried. I love you.”
She took a step back. “That kid attacked Dad’s car. Maybe it’s about him! Or Eli! Or you!”
“That seems pretty unlikely, don’t you think?”
“No. I don’t, actually. But now everyone at school will be talking about this. About me.”
The Perfect Family Page 9